Poetcetera

Another singer’s simple song, another line rehearsed,
another sire’s lineage drawn backward, trampled, cursed.
My worth is weighed in ribbons, and my body called emphatic,
but I know not a single note, nor am I operatic.

Another lover left behind, another child’s lesson
stopped before the final vow—phonetical regression.
My might is met with wisdom; my courage capped at just
a fraction of my faithfulness, a teaspoon of my trust.

Another angel’s amperage, another soldier’s wire,
another activated cold set out upon like fire.
My source is slowly giving in; my reason raided, lest
I make some sort of judgment call or pass some kind of test.

(A haiku.)

Afterwards, all that
was left: a few discarded
details, a warning.

Let’s not bother to pretend that you
will defend me in any way that
really counts, in any shade that
matters, that stands out. You may
say I’m a poet, but it’s always in
more of a whisper than a shout.
So tell me, what is that about?

This doesn’t amount
to much, doesn’t equate,
so make it great,
love. Make it count.

I am a lot of things—
graceless, gone, a plateau that bridges
my best intentions to the worst
reactions, a hum of hammers
hollowing my sighs, echoing, a buzz of
questions, the thrum of the thrill
of your voice in my ear. And
sweetheart, what I hear is this—
a nest, a gosling, a wrestling at
my throat, arresting, a throbbing of fingers
in all that you wrote, and
precious few decisions. I am an
imprecision, a collection of bones,
a series of unsafe and colloquially
emphatic groans. Grace me with your
guns blazing, your nails, your
sacred descent of my ribcage, your
pilgrimage to the land of my longing,
the ravenous religion of my thighs, a
prayer of wheres and delicious tries, an
impression. This is the likelihood, the
throng, sidelong and swaddled in your song.

Awash in trepidation, the body favors wrong
and flavors every harmony with sacrilegious song.
Empowered though the heart may be, it never will forget
the time when rhyme destroyed its faith and reason tread regret.
Supposing any thing will do is dangerous at best,
but worst of all is feigning still; pretending is the test
for whether movement means you care or gleans some other fact;
the weakest of our wisdowms is the purest play to act.
But never think your knowledge is infallible or hold
the youthfulness of courage to the standards of the old.
If grasping is your greatest task, then gather in your palm
whatever grip is handed you, and center on your calm.
For some have stood, and some will fall, but all must choose a path,
and peace, when placed against the heart, is comparable to wrath.
So fell your walls, then tell your tale of triumph tipped in hours—
when passing as a timid friend, time sacrificed its powers.